


Descent into Madness

by Sentinel_of_Mischief



Category: Brock Rumlow - Fandom, Captain America, Captain America the Winter Soldier, Marvel, crossbones - Fandom
Genre: Origin Story, PTSD, Pre villain, Supervillains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4378616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sentinel_of_Mischief/pseuds/Sentinel_of_Mischief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One shot. What started out as a ramble and turned into a fic instead. Chronicles parts of Brock Rumlow's life before becoming an agent of Hydra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Descent into Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this story started out with me needing to rant out some feelings about how some people portray Rumlow on Tumblr. I don't feel he's at this point in his life right now where he can handle a relationship. He's too messed up. So I started to kinda write out exactly WHY I feel this way, and a fic was born. 
> 
> (Thank you, AngellWings for your help on smoothing out the beginning!)
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please, let me know what you think :)

Rumlow didn't have time for a relationship. Not anymore. His relationship is with his job and country, and to stray from that would be cheating.

That doesn't mean he never loved someone.

He did, once. Back in high school after his mother died and his dad became a belligerent drunk. He needed to feel love. He was afraid of ending up like his dad. 

There was a hot high school romance. He even did the whole prom thing, though he would always be more comfortable laying hand in hand alone with his girl in the back of his pickup truck, alone from the world.

That all changed with him joining the marines. "I'll be back," he said with a kiss and cocky grin.

He just assumed she would be there. When wasn't she? Yes, she showed up to greet him when he came back from his tours. They shared many intimate nights together. Somehow it still seemed like she was so...distant. 

Maybe it was him that wasn't there. He couldn't quite remember between the cold sweat and nightmares and phantoms dancing beneath his eyelids. 

He guessed it really wasn't a surprise when she packed her bags and left their little Brooklyn apartment. A tear ran down her face as she turned around once more to face him. "Please, Brock," she begged him one more time, "get some help."

He wished he could move. He wished he could wipe he tears from her eyes and say it was all a bad dream, but his feet refused to work. Hollow, bloodshot eyes followed her out the door. 

Emotion. When it came, it was a tidal wave of anger and betrayal. His shot glass left his hand and found the wall in a spray of prismatic shards. 

He collapsed on the floor shaking violently. He clenched his hands and tried to steady his breathing without closing his eyes. That was how the police found him. He was told later that a neighbor had heard screaming and cursing as well as the breaking glass. He didn't remember this, but it didn't surprise him. He was his father's son, after all.

He begged the nurses at the hospital not to give him meds. Fear of the nightmares made him grab the woman's arm and try to make her drop her needle. Fatigue made her overwhelm him, and he fell hard into fitful sleep.

When he finally woke there was a man sitting by his bed. Instinctively, he tried to move into a defensive position, but couldn't. Restraints were holding him down, and he began to panic.

"Hey, now, whoa, easy there, my man," the stranger said, and began to unfasten the restraints. "I just busted you out of this joint. I'd hate to give them a reason to keep you here." He helped Brock up and offered his hand. "Sam Wilson, therapist."

Brock eyed the extended hand as he got out of bed. "I don't need a damn shrink." 

Sam wasn't phased. He tried a different tactic as Brock moved towards the door. "You get much sleep at night?"

Brock stopped. Sam pressed on. "Let me guess, it's the nightmares, right? You hear the screams, see the blood, see the corpses of your friends just like you are still there. They haunt you every time you close your eyes." Sam's long stride brought him in front of Brock, and he looked the broken man in the eyes. "You think you're going to be next. Every clap of thunder, every time you step on a twig in your yard you think you're gonna die. But you know what? I can help you. Help you forget? Naw, man, I ain't God. But I can help you move on. Question is, can you trust me?"

He wasn't sure why, but Brock did trust him. Maybe it was the promise of a life that was better than this. 

Just as Sam promised, he helped Brock. At first, he was crashing at Sam's place with a couple other guys who Sam had rescued. He attended therapy regularly. He stopped drinking. He was having nightmares less regularly. Eventually got a small place of his own by helping out in a local gym. Everything started to feel right again.

That was when he came home to an intruder. His military training kicked in as he picked up on the signals that something was amiss. He crept into his apartment like a cat ready do pounce.

He didn't have to look far. On his couch sat a short, balding man in a suit. The man pushed his wire-rimmed glasses and smiled. "Hello, Brock. My name is Agent Sitwell. I hope you don't mind I helped myself to a glass of milk." Sitwell paused, then continued. "I'd like to make you and offer."


End file.
